I am not sure how it happened. I think the slobbering beast may have attacked me in my sleep. I seem to recall some fitful dreams the other night- perhaps they were not dreams at all.

Whenever Mommy picks me up I can’t hold back a whimper. I know I am no longer a young pup, but these senior citizen pains are not cool.  I can’t exactly tell from where the pain is radiating- is it a pulled groin muscle? Perhaps I strained something in my legs? I’m not limping from pawpaw pain, so it seems to be something done to my torso or legs directly.  It’s not holding me back from eating my dinner before the other “dog” tries to sneak bites of my food. But I am not as active as I usually am able to be.

I may need round-the-clock care now. Mommy and Daddy should just quit their jobs. I think I need 24/7 snuggles to keep my strength. Hand-feeding will probably be necessary too. While we’re on the food subject, I think we need to transition into a human food diet. I feel like that dry kibble is not conducive to healing in the same way that Mommy and Daddy’s food would be.  This should include unlimited drinks of milk, and tastes of that brown creamy sweet-smelling stuff that they always say “isn’t good for me”.  I’m too wise to fall for that shit.


Keep Your Arms to Yourself. Oh Wait, They’re So Freakishly Short That You Have No Other Choice

Sometimes, I like to get philosophical. As I lounge in the sun, trying to ignore the slobbering beast laying nearby, I think of squirrels some more. And the many ways I hate them. This, in turn, logically leads me to other things I hate.  Exhibit A: Freakishly short arms on things.

Things with freakishly short arms which I hate:

-Squirrels. Obvious. The way they sit there on their hind legs with their deformed tiny limbs perched limply. Sickening. I shall go vomit on the patio to show my dominance and disgust. Mommy will understand.

-T-rex. They think they’re soooo tough, but they can’t even touch their own faces with those impotent things they call “arms”. Freak.

-Kangaroos. The T-Rex of deer. Whoever thought it was hilarious to put boxing gloves on them is obviously mentally ill.

Now, some of you less intelligent humans may say: but Grumpy Dachshund, you have short legs as well, how can you hate on your own kind? To which I respond:

False. MY legs:

1. Are fully functional & useful, unlike the ridiculous T-Rex. My COMPLETELY PROPORTIONAL TO THE REST OF MY BODY legs allow me to gallop at high speeds, especially in furious circles around the living room. Also they allow me to pivot sharply to avoid Mommy’s brush when she tries to strip me of my fur. T-Rexes, contrastingly, have arms that do not make ANY sense in comparison with their size.  I’m pretty sure God created T-Rexes after a few too many dog treats, drunk with power and peanut butter flavor.  There is no other explanation.

2. Are insanely adorable, thereby distinguishable from those hideous squirrels.  My “pawpaws”, as Mommy calls them, are chubby and tiny and irresistible.  I can suck people in with my cuteness, perching on my hind legs and waving my delightful hands at them, & then, as they grab my paws to shake hands, hypnotize them with kisses until they fully submit to my awesomeness.  Squirrels, on the other hand, are just hideous rodents. Their tiny arms can barely hold those stupid nuts they like to crunch obsessively. They are lean and scratchy and NOT CUTE AT ALL.

3. Don’t need boxing gloves (*cough*kangaroos*cough*) to be tiny limbs of terror.  If you mess with me, I am not afraid to slap you in the face. Ask the other dog that squats here. Or Daddy.  I don’t need any assistance in taking a bitch down. If you mess with my toys, or try to take my bone, I will not hesitate to beat you into subservience with my tiny fists of fury.

I know it may be tough for you to keep up with my logic, since I am clearly an advanced being. Just remember that I am adorable, yet vicious- an enigma of perfection. Those other creatures are just jokes of nature.

Time to lather Daddy in kisses until he wakes up with my pawpaws on his face.

Squirrels. Die.

Squirrels. The bane of my existence (other than that other dog that thinks she lives here).  They prance around, wagging that huge fluffy monstrosity of a tail, taunting me. I keep warning the humans, trying to sound the alarm of their evil plot to overthrow civilization. All Mommy does is rub her head. Must be a sign that she needs more kisses until she is ready to listen.

Even when I’m minding my own business, sniffing the dirt, munching on some grass in my backyard, those damn squirrels saunter out. The Head Squirrel, who we shall call Wuss, just sits on the other side of the fence, TOO SCARED to come say his chittering taunts TO MY FACE.

I let loose a fury of responses, letting that squirrel know that this is my house. Mommy joins in; I can’t hear what she’s saying over my own monologue, but I’m sure it’s shouts of support and love for my efforts to protect us from those cowardly squirrels. After 10 minutes or so, she comes out and scoops me up, rescuing me from the exhaustion that is setting in from my lengthy and impassioned speech. She is also irritated, clearly with Wuss and his ugly, beady little eyes. As she shuts the back door and whispers “silence”, I know it’s so we can meditate on our victory together.  I can still catch a glimpse of Wuss outside as we sit on the couch, and my bravery takes over as I leap to the top of the couch and continue my war cry. Mommy starts whimpering in pride. She is totally impressed with my manliness and courage. Finally, Wuss scurries up his tree, and I know that we have won the battle. The war is not over yet though. Not until I strike fear into the hearts of every single squirrel with my voice.  Mommy and Daddy will be so proud of me.


Let me lick your face. Let me lick your face. Let me lick your face. Lick. Face. Lick. Face. Face. Licking. Face. Lick. Kisses. Now. Lickface.

If I say “lick” enough, will it lose all meaning, thereby lowering your defenses and allowing me to give you unlimited voracious kisses? I thought so. Grab a towel- it’s about to get real.

Thine Enemy

I wait. She continues to stare at me, wagging her stupid tail, slobbering all over her face. Disgusting.

I stay completely still. Perhaps she is like a T-Rex, losing me if I don’t move.

She starts growing impatient. I can sense it. She shifts, and then starts bouncing around like a kangaroo on crack. I glare at her while she careens in circles around me, getting dangerously close to my chew toy.  My mind begins to race with all the methods of torture I will enact upon her if she goes for the toy gripped firmly in my jaws. She shall not have it.

My war growl begins rumbling from the depths of my belly. My eyes dart briefly to the left, and as the stupid beast hops right, I sprint to the side and fly past her.  What a bumbling fool. I race under the kitchen table, where her giant head can’t get me. I have bested her today. But the war is not over. She has invaded my territory, moving in on my castle. She plays with my toys, sleeps in my bed, and, as the most egregious offense:

She. Sits. In. Mommy’s. Lap.

Or at least she tries shoving her huge ass in there. Ridiculous mutt should know that she is no lapdog. She must learn her place. And I shall teach her to behave.  After I chew on this toy under the table for a few hours.